


Happy Birthday, Jimmy Boy

by ll_again



Series: Phases of Domestication [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Jim has a troublesome past, Vaginal Fingering, Wall Sex, but not necessarily happy birthdays, smutty smutty birthday smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 01:12:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14414439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ll_again/pseuds/ll_again
Summary: Jim's never had a good birthday. Molly's determined to buck the trend.





	Happy Birthday, Jimmy Boy

**Author's Note:**

> YEAH SO I was gonna do a short little drabble for Jim's birthday (which is apparently April 5th in canon) BUT it turns out that PoD Jim really hates his birthday and ... yeah. This got weird. O.o
> 
> It gets a wee bit rough, so mind the tags.

 

Jim froze as soon as he stepped into the flat, eyes narrowing dangerously. Either a florist had been slaughtered in the living room, or someone had deliberately left a trail of rose petals leading towards the bedroom.

For _some_ reason.

Fishing his phone out of his pocket, Jim shrugged out of his jacket as he typed out a text.

_Prepare to die, Moran_.

The response came quickly. _Wasn't me, man. That girl of yours is canny._

Jim placed a smirk on his face, using it to tug loose the tension between his brows. Seb's assessment was correct, of course; his girl was the canniest.

Pushing open the bedroom door, he found Molly lying on her stomach on the bed, chin propped on her hands, with her bare feet bobbing in the air.

"Welcome home, darling," she purred, a wicked light in her eyes. "Or should I say-"

"No."

Molly rolled over onto her back, tilting her head backwards over the edge of the bed as she sing-songed, "-birthday boy?"

Jim sighed.

"Sebbie said you wouldn't want to do anything," Molly continued, rolling all the way around to slide off the bed and coming to her feet in one surprisingly graceful move. She wiggled her hips a little to straighten out the lace-trimmed, yellow babydoll set that was currently doing a terrible job of covering her bits.

Jim's mouth went dry.

"But I thought I could talk you into a private celebration," Molly finished with a smirk.

Jim raked his eyes over her as she sashayed closer, his tongue wetting his upper lip absently. "How did you find out?"

A fair question, as Jim had locked down that bit of information more tightly than the nation's secrets. (Which, to be fair, maybe wasn't saying much.)

Molly stopped in front of him, laying her arms on his shoulders and twirling a curl of the hair at the nape of his neck between two fingers. "Oh, I have my ways," she said. Her painted eyes crinkled coyly. It wasn't often she wore make up, but the effect was striking, and Jim's belly tightened in response.

For an embarrassing moment, his brain stuttered to a stop, and when he didn't respond, Molly faltered. She nearly stepped away, but Jim managed to catch her by the hips before she could.

"We don't have to do anything," she said, biting her lip. "If you really don't want-mmph!"

Jim's lips landed hard on hers, cutting her off before she could launch into a full on nervous rant. "Tell me-" he panted, digging his fingers under the thin strap holding her knickers up. "Leave the rest on. Tell me you love me." Between kisses, Jim backed Molly to the nearest wall, while she scrabbled at his clothes, ripping at least a few buttons off his shirt in her haste. "Tell me that-"

Jim broke off with a gasp as Molly closed a triumphant hand around his erection, carefully freeing him before shoving his pants lower to get them out of the way.

"Yes. Always," she murmured against his lips. "I love you."

With a strength belied by his lithe frame, Jim hoisted her up against the wall. Molly hooked her legs around his waist, head falling back with a groan as he slid inside her.

"I love you," she repeated when he pulled back for a second thrust. "Jim-"

He could hear the '-my' of the diminutive that Molly just managed not to vocalize, but she clenched around him at the same time and Jim buried himself with that feeling, sinking into it like so much wet sand.

Even so, a moth-eaten voice rasped behind his ear, _Happy birthday, Jimmy Boy._

Jim thrust erratically into her wet heat, dipping his head to her shoulder and filling all his senses with his canny, clever, ridiculous girl.

"Jamie," Molly gasped, correcting herself. "Yes, Jamie."

"Tell me…" he said into the swell of her breast, too low for his own ears to hear over the blood pounding through his veins.

But Molly heard him. "I love you, Jamie," she gasped, clinging to him with a grip hard enough to bruise while he fucked her into the wall. "Always and forever. You're mine. You're all mine. No one else will ever get to you."

Shuddering, Jim came in a white flash, a low noise escaping him that he tried to smother into her skin. Molly brushed back his hair with a gentle hand, cradling him to her breast. Her legs loosened around his waist, but Jim caught her with a quiet "no" before she could lower her feet to the floor. Still inside her, he managed the few steps to the bed before collapsing onto the mattress, Molly landing half on top of him, giggling into his ear.

"Happy birthday to you~" she half-whispered, half-sang.

Jim shut his eyes, a stuttering exhale escaping him as his erection softened and receded and he slipped out of her at last. Arousal sated, his brain started up again, sifting through scraps and echos that, most days, he was able to stifle.

_Happy birthday, Jimmy Boy_ , one of them sang, twisting the cheerful tune into a sibilant mockery.

He wiped his hand over his mouth, scrubbing the edge of his palm hard over his bottom lip. On anyone else, it might have been a nervous gesture.

Molly caught his hand and brought it to her lips, biting lightly at the tips of his fingers.

Shifting her off of him, onto her back, Jim leaned over her, cupping her face in both hands. She looked up at him with a cool gaze, her carefully applied makeup smudged and even more appealing now than when it had been perfect. His thumb crept to the corner of her eye, rubbing at the black line and smearing it further.

For a moment, Jim just stared, lips parted and eyes narrowed in on every detail of her face, from the artificial curl she'd put in her lashes to the fine lines set into her skin by age and life.

His hand crept down, palm spreading broadly over her throat. He didn't press down. Not yet.

The tip of his tongue darted out to wet his lips. "No one ever gets to me," he murmured distantly.

Molly's brow furrowed. The action was notable for its timing, because she hadn't shown any concern when he'd first covered her neck. Her small, fragile fingers slipped under the gaping flap of his shirt, seeking a decades-old scar on his abdomen that was placed too high for an appendectomy and too ragged to be made in innocence.

"No. Not anymore," she said, voice low and edged with something dangerous.

One by one, Jim pressed the pad of each finger against her delicate skin, tightening his grip around her throat, but still not quite to the point of squeezing.

Molly swallowed, and he felt her throat working. Her carotid pulsed rapidly against his fingertips. Her voice buzzed against his palm when she continued.

"But I did. I got to you," she said with a tightness that couldn't be attributed to the pressure of his hand. "You let me."

He jerked his head to the side, then just as quickly returned to stare down at her. "I could _kill you_ ," he said with the force of a shout but not the volume. Jim scoffed a little, flexing his fingers, almost incredulous at the ease of it. "All I have to do is twist my hand." His voice dropped to a dreadful whisper. "That's _all_."

Under him, pinned to the bed and quite literally at his mercy, Molly blinked, eyes calm. "You don't need to," she said, drawing a fingernail along the jagged scar just under his ribcage. "Not with me."

There was a beat while they both remained frozen, before Jim flung his whole body away from Molly, as if she'd burned him. As if she'd turn to ash if he held on a millisecond longer.

As if he knew just how close he'd come to doing to himself what he'd vowed to do to Sherlock Holmes on a dark night in a mostly empty poolhouse.

Struggling for breath, he dragged both hands over his face, digging his fingers into his eye sockets. A second later, he was scrambling back to her, grabbing blindly to pull her close again, up into his lap.

"I won't," he sobbed into her hair, against her lips, voice cracking. "I wouldn't. I won't." Eyes stinging, Jim pushed her head back to line her throat with kisses. Four on one side and one on the other. Every place his fingers had pressed.

Chest heaving, Molly braced her hands on his shoulders. She squeaked when Jim pried her legs open, nearly levitating when he swiped two fingers along the slick and sticky junction between her thighs. "Ji-im!"

"You… play…" he panted, working his fingers into her cunt. "… _dangerous_ games, Molly-my-bell."

He felt twisted up, into hundreds of little knots that pulled at each other as he moved. It was uncomfortable, though hardly unfamiliar, and it scattered him; took his cold steel core and melted it to slag.

Molly, now straddling his lap with shaking thighs and still gripping his shoulders for balance, looked down on him, messy eyes flung wide, as she breathed in and out in short, sharp bursts. Her mouth opened like she wanted to speak, but she reconsidered quickly and stayed silent.

Jim curled his fingers inside her tight channel, slick with his cum, the rest of it dripping down his hand, and swallowed hard, squeezing his eyes shut. "But," he ground out, "you know what to say. Don't you?"

"No, I don't-" Molly shifted her hips, gasping. "I don't want you to stop."

"And what do you want?" Jim said in a low voice, tilting his face closer to hers. "Want to fuck yourself on my hand?" She mewled, mindlessly thrusting her hips against his fingers.

Everything in him loosened a little. Jim leaned back, letting his eyes droop half-shut as he looked down. He bunched up the hem of Molly's babydoll, pulling it out of the way and holding it at her hip. "Well, go on then."

Moaning loudly, Molly did just that. "M-more," she gasped, grinding down on his hand. Jim obeyed, sliding a third finger into her and moving in concert to find the perfect rhythm for her pleasure. Gripping his shoulder hard enough to bruise, Molly threw her head back, slipping her other hand down to circle her clit.

"Yes, good," he murmured, mesmerized. "Very good."

"Oh God," she sang, "Jamie… _God_."

An accurate assessment, Jim thought with a smirk.

On a high-pitched wail, Molly peeked, her walls clenching around his fingers, so tightly that Jim grunted in response, pleasure prickling through him at just the thought of her wrapped around his cock.

"Ungh." Molly collapsed against him, lips finding the hollow under his ear and landing a sloppy kiss there. "Can we do this again for my birthday?"

Jim carefully removed his fingers, mindful that Molly was likely to be extra sensitive after such an intense orgasm. As she settled back into his lap, he felt a damp spot spreading through his trousers, and he closed his eyes briefly, biting back a sigh as he silently resigned himself to yet another ruined suit.

"This little thing won't look nearly as good on me, I think," Jim said, tugging lightly at the flimsy fabric of her babydoll.

"Don't sell yourself short," Molly told him as they lay down.

Molly waited while Jim tucked his cock back into his pants and slipped off his soiled trousers, smirked (he looked over to check) when he tried to do up his shirt only to realize there weren't enough buttons left to make it worth it, and snuggled into his side once he was settled.

"Jim," she began, pausing to drop a kiss to his shoulder. "I know this wasn't what you wanted, and I-"

"Do _not_ be sorry," he snarled.

Molly flinched and fell silent, pressing her lips to his shoulder again, leaving them there. This time, Jim didn't hold back his sigh. "Stop sniveling, Molly. I have something important I need to ask you."

"I am not sniveling," she said, a little wetly. Shifting back so she could look him in the eyes, she cocked her head curiously at him. "What is it?"

"What did you do to your tits?"

Just briefly, Jim let his gaze slip down to Molly's perkier-than-usual bosom, before he snapped back to her face.

"Oh." Molly looked down, giggling. "There's a push up bra in this thing." She poked at one breast absently. "They're a bit ridiculous, aren't they?"

"Molly," Jim said very seriously, maneuvering her onto her back and hovering over her, face level with her (quite stunning) tits. "When you eventually decide to murder me, I insist that you do it by smothering me with these."

"Um. Why would I want to murder you?"

He kissed the inside curve of one breast, then the other. "I cannot imagine."

_Happy birthday, Jimmy boy…_

Jim pressed his face between Molly's breasts, smothered in the scent of sweat, sex, and just the faintest whiff of death.

Instead of answering, Molly stroked a hand over his head, letting it lie. When she spoke again, it was to change the subject, "I got you a present."

"I noticed," Jim said without lifting his head, curling his hand around her thigh possessively. "I liked it."

That was even true. And a first, as birthday presents went.

"I didn't mean me," she said, digging her fingers into his hair. Her voice rumbled through her chest and penetrated his skull, doing war with the other noises bouncing around in there. "I can't give you something you already have. That's rude." Molly paused. "Are you still breathing?"

"Mmph," Jim huffed, making Molly squirm. He lifted his head to look at her. "Does it blow up?"

It took Molly a moment of bewildered confusion to realize he wasn't asking about inflatable toys. "Your present? No...well, I mean. Everything blows up if you pack it with Semtex I guess, but-"

Jim lurched upward, trying to land a kiss on her that was half-obscured with laughter. "I am going to keep you," he announced once he'd succeeded, rolling onto his back and pulling her along. "Forever."

"Mm, I should hope so," Molly said, snuggling into his side. A beat, then she added, "Do you want to open your present now?"

There was a nervous energy to the question, ill-concealed by Molly's forced nonchalance. It was something she hadn't displayed for a long time, and Jim didn't like it any more than he did her apologies.

"Yes, of course," he said. "Gimme."

Molly wiggled out of his hold to fetch a wrapped cube from the dresser that was about the size of a teapot. "It's, um, fragile," she said. "So don't shake it."

Almost reluctantly, she held it out, letting Jim take it from her hands before crawling back up to sit beside him on the mattress, legs curled under her demurely. She tucked her hair behind her ears, shifting her weight back and forth while Jim held up the box to his face for a proper inspection.

In the end, he opted to rip off the paper in one go, rather than drawing out the unwrapping. Molly's gift was unlikely to explode (a shame, but he couldn't have everything, even if it was his birthday), but she looked about to ignite herself with nerves, so he decided to be magnanimous on his birthday and take pity on her.

Inside was a glass-encased diorama, Victorian-style, with a taxidermy mouse dressed and poised. Jim stared at it for a good, long while, rotating it in his hands to look at it from every angle.

Finally, he lifted his head. "This mouse is wearing a Belstaff."

"Um, yes," Molly said, tugging at her hair.

"And a deerstalker."

"Yeah."

Jim looked down at it again. "...why is he lying down?"

Molly perked up in just that way she had about her when she was about to drop a truly awful pun. "He's clueing for looks!"

And sure enough, the mouse detective had a tiny microscope in the scant space between it's face and the floor. Jim hadn't been physically present at the Watson wedding for obvious reasons, but Molly had consented to wear a button cam in her corsage. Primarily, Jim had been interested in tracking anyone who dared to drunkenly hit on Molly (for future mutilation). Sherlock Holmes' best man speech had been a surprisingly entertaining bonus.

Jim's head went blissfully silent. Even the creaking, tinkering melody that had been playing like an out-of-tune music box since he woke and remembered the date had stopped.

"You made this," he said in some wonder, although that much had been apparent from first glance.

Pressing her lips together, Molly nodded. "Well," she said a moment later, "Toby helped. He caught the mouse."

"That's my boy," Jim murmured automatically.

"That's why I put it in the coat, actually. It a bit, um, mangled under there. And then I thought, because we laughed so much about that story, that…" She trailed off when Jim got off the bed.

He crossed to the dresser, making a great show of setting up the diorama there, fiddling with the placement and stepping back several times to make sure it could be seen from all angles. "I hope you took tomorrow off work," he said before he turned around.

Molly, sitting demurely in the center of the bed, was a total wreak. Her hair hung in disordered waves, her makeup was smeared around her eyes in that 'morning-after-a-night-out' look that wasn't flattering on anybody. Her babydoll was crumpled, probably beyond repair, and even the shoulder straps had given up the ghost and slipped down.

Her tits were still perfectly perky, however. Jim made a note to investigate them more thoroughly.

Fidgeting under his stare, Molly patted absently at the nest of hair haloing her head and said, "I can?"

Jim shrugged out of his shirt, walking to the edge of the bed and leaning down, bracing his hands on the mattress to put his face next to hers. "Yes," he said, deepening his Irish brogue intentionally, and smirking when her pupils dilated. "I think you should. I'm going to fuck you so well you won't be able to walk in the morning."

"Oh," Molly squeaked, flushing pink all the way to her cleverly manufactured cleavage.

Jim took an age to close the gap between them, and then just barely brushed his lips to hers, much to Molly's audible displeasure. "Tell me…"

"Yes?" she gasped, clutching at his bare skin.

"Tell me, 'Happy Birthday'."


End file.
